The Han Solo Guide to Successful Retirement
by Mousme
Summary: #3 in the Fusion 'verse. Dean comes down with the 'flu, and the world doesn't end.


Title: **The Han Solo Guide to Successful Retirement**

Prompt/Summary: **Fusion** 'verse. Dean comes down with the 'flu, and the world doesn't end.

Characters: Dean, Sam

Rating: PG-13

Wordcount: 2,544

Disclaimer: I'm working on a lend-lease arrangement. Fingers crossed!

Warnings: Nothing major. Swearing. Schmoop. Lord above, is there schmoop in this. It's, umm, fluffy.

Neurotic Author's Note #1: Another fic set in the same 'verse as **Fusion**. You may want to read that before reading this, although you don't need to in order to understand the story.

Neurotic Author's Note #2: This is, yet again, a failed attempt at getting Sam that puppy. It will happen, mark my words. On the plus side, this one's a decently happy fic, even if there's no puppy.

Neurotic Author's Note #3: There's even less plot to this one than to **In from the Rain**, but there you go. Apparently I don't need plots in order to produce h/c. Mostly this is me trying to work out in my head just how Sam and Dean are making it all work, since sometimes Dean needs taking care of too. :)

* * *

Someone is shaking him by the shoulder. It takes Dean a moment to figure it out, and then he just tries to burrow back into his pillow. It's still dark out, way too early to even contemplate getting up. He feels strangely heavy. He bets this is what Han Solo felt like when he was encased in carbonite.

"Dean, wake up."

"Daaaad, 's early," he moans, even though he knows he's probably just earned himself an extra two miles today, just for that. His throat feels dry.

"It's not Dad," comes the confusing reply, because who else has hands that big? "I just need you up for a couple of minutes. Come on." The shaking persists.

"Sammy?" he tries to kick off his blankets, but he's been weighted down with lead –never mind that carbonite shit– and something's gone wrong with his leg. "I can't… my leg won't bend," he struggles to sit up, but it's a lot more complicated than it usually is.

"I know. It's okay, it's not supposed to bend anymore, remember?" An arm tucks itself around his shoulders, propping him up. "Take your pills."

Dean feels fingers near his lips, the chalky taste of aspirin on his tongue, feels a glass being held up for him. He swallows the water out of reflex, and only realizes then just how badly his throat hurts.

"'m I sick?"

"Yeah. You got the same 'flu I did, looks like. Don't worry, I already called Sophie and told her you couldn't come in. She said it was fine and to come back when you're better. You want more water?"

He can't make sense of any of it. "Sammy?"

There's an amused huff. "Yeah, Dean."

"Where's Dad? Did he leave already?"

For a moment there's silence. "Yeah. He had to go, but it's okay. I can look after us for a little while. Just until you're better."

It's not right. He should be looking after Sammy, not the other way around. Dad should have stayed, he thinks fuzzily. There's no one to protect Sammy, not if he can't get up. A hand presses against his forehead, cool and soothing, and he thinks maybe he misunderstood, because he thought Dad was gone and now he's here.

"Y'have to take Sammy to school," he mumbles. "He'll be late."

"Go back to sleep, Dean," a voice whispers, and he does.

He dreams of fire and darkness, and he spends a long time wandering, looking for something or someone who's always just out of reach. Every now and then the same pair of hands rouses him, strokes his forehead, feeds him pills and water, and he lets himself float, knowing Dad is taking care of things. The next time he awakens fully it's light out, and his sheets and pajamas are soaking wet, and cold to boot. He makes a face, pushes himself upright on shaky arms, surprised at how weak he feels. He's lightheaded, vision still a bit blurry, and he's never felt so thirsty in his life, except maybe that one time hunting that chupacabra in New Mexico. Swallowing hurts, as though something in his throat is swollen.

A few minutes later Sam pokes his head in. He's already showered, shaved and dressed, complete with matching socks, although he's not wearing shoes, which he almost never does indoors, and Dean feels tension he didn't even know was there drain away from him.

"Hi," Sam says softly, a tentative smile hovering about his lips. "Feeling better?"

He nods carefully, still not sure his head is properly attached to his shoulders. "I think so. How long was I out?"

"About two days, but you've kind of been in and out," Sam pads over to the bed and picks up a thermometer. "Open up. I wanna make sure you're in the clear. You can have water after."

He sits on the bed, mindful of Dean's bad leg, and holds out the thermometer. Obediently Dean opens his mouth, tucks it under his tongue, and watches his brother carefully while he waits for it to beep. Sam looks okay, he thinks. Maybe a little tired and pale, but he had the 'flu last week too, so that's not surprising. The thermometer beeps quietly, and Sam retrieves it, pursing his lips at the results.

"Not perfect, but I guess beggars can't be choosers," he reaches out to brush the back of his fingers against Dean's forehead. "You had me worried for a while. Thought you were going to fry your brain. And it's not like you can afford to lose that many more brain cells," he ducks his head with a quick smile, dimples showing, and Dean makes a show of swatting at him.

"Bitch."

"Have some water," Sam just hands him a glass, and damned if it isn't the best-tasting water he's ever had. "You want help getting to the bathroom?"

He probably hasn't taken a leak in two days, and come to think of it, the bathroom is sounding like a pretty good option right about now. There's a shower in there, too. Dean shifts on the bed, swings his good leg to the floor, eases the stiff leg out after it, and thinks about it.

"Yeah, I think so."

Sam just nods and pulls him to his feet, letting him rest almost his full weight on him while he gets used to the notion of being upright and walking again. It feels a lot like when he was first out of the hospital, trying to figure out how to walk with a knee that didn't move the way he was used to, re-learning all the basics. Sam helps him to the bathroom, props him up while he takes a leak, and he doesn't know when this all became so matter-of-fact, but he finds he doesn't mind. Barely thinks about it anymore. By the time he's brushed his teeth and had more water to drink, he's feeling a lot steadier.

"Shower?"

"God, yes."

"Okay, sit."

Pants are a bitch when your knee won't bend, and that includes pajama pants and boxers and anything else that would require movement in order to put on. Sam once half-jokingly suggested he try a sarong, only to have Dean throw a dirty t-shirt at his head. Dean peels off his own t-shirt, stuck to him with sweat, and Sam helps remove his pajama pants and lends an arm so he can get in the tub. They've set up a special chair in there on top of a non-skid mat, and Dean is long past feeling self-conscious about it. He can't afford to slip and fall –he'd probably hurt himself beyond repair, and they both need him as functional as possible. The chair and the mat give him a measure of independence, and he'll take whatever he can get.

"I'll go change the sheets," Sam tells him, letting one hand linger a bit on his shoulder. "Yell if you need me, okay?"

"'kay," he's already luxuriating in the feel of hot water, although there are days when he misses being able to just stand under the spray. Sam surprised him one day by installing one of those flexible shower heads, the ones they used to call 'telephones' when they were little kids to make Sammy laugh when he washed his hair. It's one of the best investments they ever made. He finishes up quickly, uses the bar to hoist himself up, and steps carefully out of the tub, reaches for a towel. Even drying off is more of a chore than it used to be, but he's worked out a system, and he limps back to the bedroom, towel around his waist, to find Sam laying out a fresh set of sweatpants and a t-shirt for him.

"You hungry?" Sam asks, not looking up. "There's soup."

He eases himself down on the edge of the bed. "You made soup?"

Sam snorts softly, shakes his head, then kneels to help him into a clean pair of boxers. "Mrs. O'Keefe made soup," he corrects him. "I just heated it up again. She's been checking in since she found out you were sick."

"That's good," he's trying desperately not to let on how worried he's been since finding out that he left Sam to cope on his own for two days while he was sick.

"Yeah, we now have more tuna casserole than we'll be able to eat in a month. I froze most of it. Lift," Sam tugs the boxers over his hips, repeats the process with the sweatpants.

"I never even heard her come in."

"Yeah, well. You were sort of out of your head for a while. Kept thinking I was Dad, and going on about Han Solo. Not your most shining moment," Sam tugs Dean's t-shirt over his head, lets him handle the sleeves. "You should go back to bed. I'll bring soup."

"I don't suppose you'd bring my cigarettes, would you?"

"Nope. No smoking in bed. That's the rule."

Dean sighs. Han Solo wouldn't have had to beg for his cigarettes, but then Han Solo didn't smoke or have a fused knee either. He'd have gone to get his own non-existent cigarettes. Han Solo probably wouldn't have got the 'flu, either. It's stupid, feeling tired after only a shower, but he feels like he could nap for a week. He lets Sam fuss with his pillows, enjoying the feeling of clean sheets, and manages to stay awake long enough for Sam to bring up a bowl of soup and a slice of toast on a tray. It's chicken soup, obviously home made, and it tastes delicious.

"You not having any?" he asks, spoon halfway to his mouth.

Sam shakes his head. "Already ate. It's nearly three."

He glances at the clock, surprised. "You take your meds?" Sam's on a pretty strict schedule when it comes to that, and Dean's more than a little worried about what happened to that schedule while he wasn't lucid enough to keep track.

"Uh-huh. 's why I had to eat without you."

"Okay, good." He sets the mostly-empty bowl aside, settles back on the bed, and realizes that it's the first time in his life that he hasn't felt compelled to get right back in the saddle, to prove that he's still just as capable as before. He finds himself staring at Sam, trying to figure out what's going on in his head. His brother looks like he's still all there, which means he's been holding himself together for at least two days. "C'mere, Sammy," he scoots over a bit, pats the bed beside him. Without a second's hesitation Sam slides onto the bed and curls up beside him, rests his head against Dean's chest, just under his arm. As much as he shies away from contact on bad days, on good ones he gets cuddlier than a strip of velcro, and so far today he's been really good about leaving Dean his space. Dean figures he's overdue at this point. "You okay?"

Sam huffs, watching his hand rise and fall on Dean's stomach as he breathes. "So far so good. It was harder than I thought."

"What was?"

"Keeping track of things. I kept having to make lists."

"Good thing you like lists."

"Yeah. People kept coming in, to make sure we were okay. I had to tell them to stop. Do you think they'll be mad?" Sam's voice is quiet, anxious all of a sudden, and Dean figures the stress of the past couple of days is finally catching up to him.

"Why did you tell them that?"

Sam shrugs. "I couldn't concentrate. I'd be in the middle of something, and they would just come in, and they asked questions and either I'd answer and I'd forget what I was doing, or I'd try to finish and I couldn't talk to them… I had to lock the door. I think I might have been rude, but I couldn't think straight and you were sick and I had to make sure things were okay."

Dean rubs his knuckles against Sam's scalp, ignoring his brother's mild yelp of protest. "You did just fine. They'll understand, and if they don't, well, fuck 'em anyway."

"I didn't want to ruin it for you. I know you like it here."

"You're a moron," Dean says, looking down at him fondly. "You think that just because I like a place I'd make you stay if you were miserable?"

"No," Sam admits. "I like it here too. But still."

"But nothing."

Sam shifts closer, burying his face in Deans t-shirt. "'M glad you're better," he says, his voice muffled. "'s fuckin' exhausting, keeping up with reality all the time. Dunno how you do it."

"It's a gift. Not even Han Solo can match me. You sure you're okay?"

Sam nods. "Mostly. I think we need a plan for next time. We got lucky. I could just as easily have spaced out, or whatever, and you would have been screwed."

"But you didn't. You did real good. We'll come up with a plan for next time. Ask around, see if maybe Mrs. O'Keefe can run interference for us, and we can, I dunno, mow her lawn or something in return."

Sam laughs. "Do you even know how to work a lawnmower?"

"Sure. I mowed a lawn once, back when that Djinn decided to screw with me."

"So you mowed a lawn once, during a supernaturally-induced hallucination," Sam says drily. "I think you need a better plan, there, Mr. Solo. Besides, I'd be the one mowing, and we both know it."

Dean settles more comfortably on his pillows, letting himself slide down the bed. It's been months, but he still can't quite get over the fact that this is the first bed that's truly belonged to him since he was four years old, more than big enough for both of them to fit. It's the most comfortable spot in the world, except maybe for the second-hand La-Z-Boy that Sam happened across at a church sale a couple of months ago and that Mike Larson brought home for them in the back of his pick-up truck, just because he could. Dean still isn't used to people doing them favours for no reason, still finds himself caught off-guard when their neighbours do stuff that's, well, neighbourly. Then again, he doesn't want to take it for granted, either. He wonders idly if Han Solo ever got a leather recliner when he retired.

"Beats being encased in carbonite, that's for sure," he says under his breath.

"Definitely," Sam agrees, and Dean isn't even surprised that Sam managed to follow his train of thought.

"All right," he gives Sam a nudge. "We'll come up with a better plan, but first I'm definitely gonna take a nap. All that lying around tired me out."

Sam giggles softly. "Was that hell I heard freezing over? You're actually taking a nap?"

He nudges him again, harder, halfway appalled that Sam can even joke about that, and utterly pleased at the same time. "Shut up. You take a nap too."

"Way ahead of you," his brother manages to defeat the laws of physics and nestles closer, eyes closed. "Sleep well."

And, surprisingly enough, he does.


End file.
